Mirror Image
by Gwdihw
Summary: A sequel to 'A Tale of Two Toms'. Set during CS4, Tom Branson confronts Thomas about his recent attitude problem and things get steamy. Warning for sexy time.


Thomas had been expecting the confrontation. With all his snide remarks and attempts to undermine Branson's authority, he'd practically been begging for it.

The door of the dining room slammed shut and Thomas smirked to himself. Pausing from picking up the empty glasses, he turned around and, sure enough, Tom Branson was standing there, aflame with indignation.

'Can I help you, sir?' Thomas asked in his mildest, softest voice. The very gentleness of his voice implied sarcasm.

'This has gone on long enough,' Branson said angrily. Thomas noted the high pink colour in his cheeks, the gleam in his eye and the way his accent got stronger the more furious he was. 'What did you say to his lordship, Thomas?'

'It's Barrow now, sir, but—'

'Jesus Christ, would you forget about that!' Tom shouted. He instantly glanced upwards, worried he had woken anyone. In a lower voice, he said: 'I'm asking you to have a conversation because it's long overdue.'

Thomas continued picking up some of the glasses. They were made of such fine crystal – beautiful but easily broken.

'My position may seem trifling compared to that of an estate manager but I take it seriously. _Sir_.' Thomas spat the last word. He remembered a time when they were equals, when they had writhed together, naked and with complete abandon. Thomas wasn't the one who had put the distance between them and he certainly wasn't going to be the one to apologise.

Branson's hand was at his elbow. Even such a light touch and even through clothes, it was overwhelmingly nostalgic. When was the last time that Thomas had been touched affectionately by someone else?

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to speak ill of your job,' Branson muttered, leaving Thomas go. He was self-conscious.

Thomas blinked at him, cocking his head to the side.

Branson started again.

'What did you tell his Lordship?'

'Only what I saw with my own two eyes,' Thomas answered innocently.

Branson let out a sound like a growl. Thomas had his back to him but he could feel that the Irishman had moved closer.

'Why all this resentment? Why all of a sudden?' Branson asked.

How could Thomas have answered that? How could he have admitted that he was jealous? How on Earth could he have found the words to tell Branson that he'd harboured the secret hope that when he did choose to move on from Sybil, it would be he, Thomas, who would be chosen?

Instead, he smirked. 'Because I can.'

Perhaps he thought Branson would hit him – any sort of physical interaction would have been a thrill, really. He still held on to that memory of the fair when they tumbled down in the grass after the game of tug-of-war, laughing and grinning and shaking hands. Was it pathetic that he still held on to that memory, visiting it regularly to make sure it didn't fade? He still thought about it sometimes when he pleasured himself – if you could call it pleasure – it had always felt more like a purge to Thomas.

Branson didn't hit him. Turning Thomas around deliberately, he grasped his shoulders and leaned in close until their foreheads were touching. Tantalising.

Branson knew the effect that this was having on Thomas – the same effect was being had on himself. His breath was a restricted flutter, a faint pink blush painting those marble cheeks.

'You're lying,' Branson whispered. 'You wouldn't hurt me. Not deliberately.'

'When did I say that?' Thomas whispered back. They were both afraid of ruining the moment by speaking too loudly. 'I never made any promise to you. I was only holding back from spilling the truth because you were in Ireland and it didn't matter.'

'But I came back.'

'Well, I was distracted at that point. Then you were a widower and it seemed unfair to poke holes in you. But I reckon you've finished grieving now, which makes you fair game.'

Branson, instead of being angry, raised a hand to Thomas' hair. It took every ounce of self-respect in Thomas to stop him reciprocating, but his sneer wavered.

'This isn't like you,' Branson said.

'I think you'll find that if you ask any person who's ever known me, this _is_ like me,' Thomas replied coolly.

Branson's hand in his hair curled into a grip and he leant forward, kissing Thomas brutally.

'I've seen the sweet side of you, remember,' Branson whispered in his ear.

'What makes you think you deserve to see it again?' Thomas challenged, but the kiss was weakening his resolve. His brain was reminding him how good Tom's skin always felt slapping against his own and his cock was reminding him how long it had been since he'd last got any action.

Their eyes locked and it was inevitable.

Tom instantly set upon ravaging Thomas' neck. There would be angry, red welts in the morning, but that was another world away.

Thomas' moans sent a self-satisfied thrill running up Tom's back, and his hands reached around to squeeze the under butler's bum, delighted to find it just as firm as he remembered.

Tom had thought it would have felt wrong. Whenever he had pictured himself moving on from Sybil, thoughts which made him disgusted with himself when he first started thinking them, he had imagined that it could only ever feel wrong. It would be a betrayal of his wife and daughter to lie in the arms of another. Perhaps it was the fact that this wasn't another _woman_ or simply that lust was clouding his brain and left no room for any other emotion, but it didn't feel in the least bit wrong.

'Thomas,' Tom sighed.

'It's Barrow, now, remember,' Thomas reminded, but there was a note of humour in his voice this time

Tom shut him up with a kiss, pushing him back until his bum collided with the dining table.

'Get on the table,' Tom told him.

Thomas' eyes widened. 'You're not serious! Here? What if someone walks in?'

'Everyone's in bed,' Tom urged, kissing him again. God, he'd forgotten how addictive simply kissing was. Even if it led to nothing, it was glorious. However, the way that Thomas was grinding up against him suggested that it was unlikely to lead to nothing.

Grinning, Tom pushed him back until Thomas had no choice but to wriggle onto the table, then he climbed on top, profoundly grateful that, for all their flaws, aristocrats invested in sturdy tables.

Tom's hand meandered downwards, rubbing Thomas' crotch – his face contorted slightly as his cock swelled and hardened in Tom's grasp. He kept looking sideways sporadically. Tom frowned wondering what it was before he realised.

There was a mirror – a large, gilded mirror which featured the two of them rutting together.

'I always knew you liked looking at yourself in the mirror,' Tom teased. 'But at a time like this?'

'Especially at a time like this,' Thomas answered seriously. He grabbed Tom's jaw to twist his head again towards the mirror.

The two men in the mirror looked back, the fair-headed one on top and the raven-haired one pinned underneath. With a lecherous wink, the dark one rolled his hips upwards provocatively.

Tom's breath caught in his throat as they glided together.

'Don't we look wonderful,' Thomas said. His hands rested loosely just above his head, wrists upturned. It was too much for Tom – he snatched at the other man's hips.

'We are. At least, you are,' Tom murmured, undoing the buttons of Thomas' trousers.

Thomas hadn't changed in the past four years. His body, yes, had undergone the miniature ravages of time, but his manner as a lover was the same, his expressions and his inclinations. Tom ran a finger along Thomas' bare chest, navigating the dark, curly hair.

'It's not normal that you should be so manly and pretty at the same time,' Tom said. 'You really need to be one or the other.'

'I was never much one for normal.'

It was a delightful escape for Tom. All his cares from the real world vanished in Thomas' embrace – all those demons were reduced to laughable inconveniences. They barely existed. The only things that existed were him, Thomas and the mirror. He was watching in the mirror when Thomas straddled him, cock wet and bobbing.

'I brought something,' Tom whispered urgently, his fingernails digging into Thomas' thighs. 'It's in my pocket.'

Thomas' eyes narrowed but he was fighting amusement. 'You were planning this, weren't you?'

Still, Thomas couldn't be angry. He was flattered by the prior intent. Whether it was only to get it out of his system or even a way to stop Thomas plotting against him, it felt good to be seduced. It felt almost as good as sliding slowly onto the Irishman, being filled entirely. He cried out involuntarily as Tom thrust up the last inch or so to meet him.

'You need to lie still,' he told Tom firmly, trying to keep his voice steady. 'I want to ride you.'

Tom complied, not moving a muscle as Thomas moved on top of him, groaning occasionally. The mirror offered the most erotic sight imaginable – such an elegant, luxurious backdrop and then the two of them, fucking.

He was a fool to think he could have lasted for more than a minute; it had been years since he'd had contact with another human being. Thankfully, Thomas seemed to be in a similar position, ready to fall to pieces. Still, to be sure, Tom reached for the other man's cock, swirling the head gently with the pad of his thumb. He wished he were flexible enough to lean forward and taste it.

And then he couldn't last any longer – tearing his eyes away from the mirror, he looked at Thomas' face, screwed up and panting. It was the smile that did it: Thomas' cheeky _I know, right?_ smile as they finished and Thomas collapsed next to Tom on the table.

Forehead glistening with sweat, Thomas let his head fall to one side, undone. He tried, as was his nature, to make a joke.

'It looks as though I've made you fall off the wagon again.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I thought you weren't going after men anymore,' Thomas mocked.

'I'm not,' Tom said, confused. 'I'm going after you. You're the exception.'

Thomas snorted. 'I hope you don't think this is going to be a regular occurrence. I've moved on, you know.'

'I know,' Tom lied back, stroking a stray hair out of Thomas' eyes. He resisted the urge to rest his head on Thomas' chest. It was too soon for such brazen affection.


End file.
